“I still don’t think Day is insane.” And yet he had threatened her after his victory. How sane was that?
Maybe I didn’t do my job well enough.
But her mother was done with that subject. “And when I think how we welcomed Nate with open arms,” she tried again.
“Not now, Kate.” Sunny’s dad steered her from the kitchen toward the stairs. On the way he scooped up her suitcase.
“Where are you going?” Her mother’s brittle tone spoke volumes. “Have you forgotten? The upstairs is a disaster area. That hurricane a few weeks ago tore off part of our roof, Sunny—the part over your old room.”
Sunny sighed. She’d been looking forward to a long nap there before dinner.
“The whole back part of the house is under tarps right now. It still leaks when it rains. And for who knows how long? It was the last straw for me,” her mother murmured.
“I’ve called every contractor in town,” her father said, his voice tight. “Sunny won’t mind sleeping in my den. Will you, Sunshine?”
“Jack, that sofa bed is like sleeping on nails.”
“I’ll be fine, Mom.” Sunny paused. “As long as I’m home, that’s all I need.”
Her mother was right about the lumpy sofa bed. Still, it beat staying another night in the apartment she’d shared with Nate—the apartment they’d soon have to sell. She wasn’t ready to think about that either.
A moment later her father closed the door behind him, leaving Sunny alone in the den with her thoughts. No more quarrels with Nate. No more waiting for an unfair verdict. No courtroom overreaction. No more threats from Wallace Day. They were empty, she hoped, the result of his anger management problem, to put it mildly.
Sunny had never needed a hiding place more. Even in a house with only half a roof, her family was her foundation, her rock. Feeling boneless, she crawled into the lumpy bed. Her head nestled into the pillow, and with a heavy sigh she slept.
* * *
TEN MINUTES A DAY, that’s all he asked. Wearing damp jeans, Griffin Lattimer padded across the gray carpet into his living room. He sported a temporary Batman tattoo, which he’d won after tonight’s bath time water fight with his son. With both his children tucked into bed, Griffin checked his messages, steeling himself for trouble.
Beep.
This is Mrs. Moriarty, 27B. I called yesterday about those bathroom faucet washers, but you haven’t replaced them. My water’s dripping all over the place.
Beep.
Lattimer, my lease says I get painted every three years. I’m not paying the rent until you redo my kitchen. That wet-behind-the-ears kid you sent over should be fired. He just slapped that paint on...looks like—
Griffin hit delete. The usual complaints. Nothing that couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Besides, their words were already carved into his brain. His job as manager of the Palm Breeze Court Apartments complex could be a thankless one, but he’d made his choice. Boston, and his short stint as a TV news anchor, was a million miles away now. Like Rachel.
But Griffin wasn’t going anywhere. He’d grown up without a father, and his kids wouldn’t have to do the same.
In the nighttime silence, he thought back to that rainy afternoon. Ten years old and wearing his first black suit, standing at his father’s graveside. His uncle stood beside him. His mother, on Griffin’s other side, clutched his hand and wept into her handkerchief.
You’re the man of the family now, she’d said. Make Daddy proud.
She was gone now, too. More than ever, it was all up to him.
Griffin headed for the refrigerator. With a cold bottle of water, he settled in front of the big-screen television he’d bought last Christmas, his second without Rachel.
The first year after she’d left, which seemed to be the way he measured time these days, he’d actually forgotten to put out milk and cookies for Santa.
“They’re not homemade cookies anyway,” his daughter had told her younger brother, not making Griffin feel better at all.
It was only September, but already he dreaded the season again. There would be no Christmas Eve with Rachel, the two of them installing batteries in toys or laying train tracks under the tree. Making memories together.
He sat and listened to the silence. The kids had stopped calling to each other across the hall. He didn’t hear Amanda’s stereo or Josh’s small but noisy feet stomping to the bathroom for the tenth time. Each night Griffin anticipated this moment when their new home finally grew quiet, and he could stop worrying for a while about lost homework, stomachaches, neighborhood bullies, loose baby teeth and how the tooth fairy would come up with another five bucks.
Headlights arced across the windows, and his brother-in-law’s truck drew up out front, a more than welcome sight. His smile usually lightened Griffin’s mood.
Tonight, his eyebrows tucked low in a scowl, Chris Cabot stalked into the living room. He dropped onto the sofa. He still wore his khaki work clothes, and the pungent aroma of fish stung Griffin’s nostrils. He fought a grin. The problem had to be Griffin’s sister, who could drive a man to thoughts of mayhem.
“What’s Bronwyn done now? Overloaded all the credit cards? Replaced the living room furniture? No,” he answered himself, “she did that a few months ago. This is too soon, even for Bron.”
Griffin sprawled on the sofa beside Chris. His hair—lightened from days spent on his charter boat—was tangled, and his blue eyes seemed darker than normal.
“I’m just fried,” Chris said. “I spent all day out with a bunch of neurosurgeons from the Mayo clinic, and their catch was ‘unacceptable.’ They’ll probably never come back. Ever since the hurricane that tore off Mom and Dad’s roof, my business has been off.” He paused. “Then I get home and no one’s there. You seen Bron tonight?”
Griffin shook his head. “She probably met up with one of her friends. You know, her life didn’t start the day she met you.”
Chris didn’t respond. Griffin had never seen him like this, but since Rachel had disappeared he’d soothed Amanda’s and Josh’s feelings often enough. He peered into Chris’s worried eyes.
“Yep,” he said, “they look green to me. For no good reason.”
Chris’s mouth twitched. “Shut up. Let me miss my wife—and feel miserable.” The smell of fish wafted through the air between them. “What would you know? It’s not like you’ve been around anyone over the age of thirteen since—”
“Thanks.” Pain coiled inside Griffin like a rattler. But Chris was right. Who was he to talk? In his experience, happiness didn’t last, and he wasn’t looking for another chance. All he cared about was finding Rachel. Protecting his kids.
Chris grimaced. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean...”
“Look, save it. I’ve heard your speech a hundred
